


Let Your Dreams Go

by KomaedaClear



Category: Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Death, M/M, No Dialogue, Poison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 09:42:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2020296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KomaedaClear/pseuds/KomaedaClear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Komaeda confesses his love for Hinata when something odd happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Your Dreams Go

**Author's Note:**

> Be warned this may get confusing at the end.

Beautiful. That was the only word which could describe the morning sky above an ocean’s horizon. The sun has barely risen, and the soft pink and purple left anyone who saw it out of breath, and force them to gaze upon it in awe. This was also the word that could be used to describe the face of one’s lover and crush. Beauty could describe countless things, but would only have full meaning when the beauty of one’s presence itself was breathtaking. This was the case of a man who stared out at the morning sky from an island’s beach, wearing black jeans that reflected the darkness of a night sky, a white shirt which showed the odd red design that not even the wearer knew, brown shoes which zipped up in an easy manner, and a long, green jacket that showcased the number 55 on the back and squares on the right shoulder. His hair was soft and fluffy and white as a cloud in the bright blue sky of day. His eyes were of a gray that reflected the ocean he looked upon, their expression that of sadness. His clear face smiled, knowing that he was the first to be up of the remaining students of the island.

A soft breeze lifted off from the low rolling waves in front of him, lightly flowing through the grass behind him. He breathed deeply, closing his depressed eyes as he embraced the air around him. These eyes were kept closed until a voice rang out around the beach, telling that the day has begun. The man did not pay attention to the time it said as he trecked up the beach and onto the grass, walking along it’s path to a large building with glass windows and doors. His hand gripped the handle in a clumsy manner and opened it, proceeding to walk up the oaken steps into the upper floor, where he was greeted by a long table with assorted breakfast items, ranging from fruit to waffles to one’s morning dosage of ice-cream to coffee and hot chocolate and donuts. The air was filled with the aroma of delicate treats and sweets, yet the man was not one to notice such things. Instead, he took a seat at the end of the large room, sitting in a chair next to a tiny table fit for only one.

As he waited, his fingers tapped the wooden table impatiently, urging someone silently to come up to his spot. His eyes were attached to the open doorway of the stairs across from him, and after a few moments, someone walked into the room. They had brown hair with a clump of it standing up in the middle of their head and a white dress shirt accompanied by a green tie. They, too, had black jeans, and their face was almost entirely neutral about the foods laid out in front of them. They did not notice the white-haired man, of course, but after a moment or two of glancing around the room with their green eyes both pairs met.

A scared, frightened look came upon the expression of the brown-haired man, but they quickly composed themselves. The white-haired man beckoned the other over, and, reluctantly, their feet, enveloped by white shoes, shuffled over. The time it took was agonizingly long, but excitement grew within the chest of the white-haired man, and hope was adamant in his gaze, which was shifting from the other’s feet to their eyes then back again.

It was when one reached the other that the white-haired man stood up and opened their arms to envelop the other in a large hug, but it was immediately stopped by a look of panic and anger in the other’s eyes. The one opposite from the brown-haired man let pain reflect in their eyes, though a danger, and asked a question of why. Pain was all he felt. Before letting the other answer that question, he explained how he had waited all night to say something, how he had spent all of his time thinking of what to say, what to do. This went on for minutes before he was interrupted by the exclaiming that he should say what he wanted to before someone else found them.

Confession. That was all that was said. A confession that surprised one. They stuttered about how could anyone like the white-haired man confess such a thing, to even believe in that confession itself. They then spoke about how nobody could confess the same thing to him, especially himself. His eyes glared into hurt ones as he gritted his teeth, unable to go any farther as something unexplainable settled in his heart.

Tears welled in the eyes of the white-haired man, feeling as though a certain accident happened all over again. Gaze settled on the floor, he stumbled out at a run, almost tripping down the stairs. His feet banged on the oaken steps, then almost slipped on the grass outside as he faced the direction of the water. Vision was blurred by the stinging fall of water down the face that could not possibly express the hurt of what he was feeling then and there. His feet slipped and he fell into the sand before he reached the waves of nowhere. As he let himself stay face-down in the sand, his tears mixed with the particles, and they stuck to his face. It made him feel uncomfortable, but that was a small thing compared to what has consumed his heart.

Guilt. That was what they felt. One felt guilt for expressing such a trivial thing, while one felt guilt for breaking what they thought was a fragile hope. However, the white-haired boy’s hope was still alive, as it was not connected to the confession. Such hope could not be smothered by any amount of despair they fell into, he has thought countless times before, and he believes he will think countless times more.

The sun was high in the sky, burning through the green jacket and into the back it covered. Sweat covered his face, replacing the tears that had stopped hours before. Although the heat was very much intense, he did not move, for if he did, his heart would melt through his chest and into the ground. Hands gripped at the sand, the only thing which seemed to struggle to stay in place.

An announcement sounded. He barely heard it, but he knew it said that a body has been found. Taking a deep breath, he rose from his place in the sand, wiping away the sand from his face. Someone called out his name. The body was upstairs, beside the food. Breakfast would have been replaced with lunch by now, he knew, and he staggered his way up onto the grass and gripped the handle of the glass door once more. Voices were hushed from above as the person that called him over mentioned that he was present. As he stumbled up the stairs, a metallic stench reached his nose, yet he did not cover it. He was used to it by now; afterall, he himself was nearly the victim once, as he was also almost the culprit.

He reached the open doorway. Someone who was blocking his view back away quickly, as though afraid he may have done it, or would attack them for not letting him see. He rubbed the bleariness away from his eyes and stepped closer. Gaze settled upon the body of a corpse. Time stopped. Heart stopped beating. Not breathing. Needing to breathe. Deep breath. More rubbing. A sourness settled in his mouth, the taste bringing back faded memories of an accident. The pain from then came back, and seemed to multiply as his eyes widened. He tried to say something, yet his voice was caught in his dry throat. He fell to his knees beside the bleeding body. His mind searched for a name, but he paid no attention to his leering thoughts.

Silence. Pain. Pain. The pain multiplied by the second. He barely noticed as his hands reached out to make sure this was real. They touched white fabric, then gripped it tightly. It felt rough in his hands. He longed to feel it as though the corpse was still alive. As though the corpse would have ever given him permission to. His mind completely blanked as tears slid down his dry face for the second time that day, and he whispered out a name. A name. A name. The only thing that broke the silence was a name. The body will never hear the name ever again. Why. Why. That word was asked over and over again until he screamed out the name again. He begged for them to wake up. Wake up. Wake up. His heart was clenched by the fist of despair. The hope held deep within was being squeezed out. It was bleeding through his eyes. He couldn’t see. Didn’t bother with it. His body gasped for air, yet it was at exact moments when he would call out the name.

This was not real. Not real. Nothing was real. Why. Why. Pain. Why. Not real. Pain. Why. Messy, gross sobs were all that filled the room, replacing any stunned silence from the people behind him. They did not try to calm him down, as they knew nothing would work. His pain was much too great. It took too long, way too long, for him to stop calling out anything at all, and even then he was still coughing, the tears no longer a waterfall. His hands let go, leaving the fabric bunched up still, and as he lifted them up to his hand slowly, they shook with such an intensity that should have caused an earthquake.

As his shaking hands gripped his head, they were almost numb. He could not register if his fingers were in his hair or not. Deep breath. Scream, he told himself. Scream. Scream as loud as you can. He did. He screamed until his lungs hurt. His upper body rocked forward. It should have broken his ears, and it might have, because he could not hear a single thing. The world was dead to him. Dead. Just like the body in front of him. Just like everyone who died before him. Dead. Everyone was dead.

A bed. How he got into his bed he would never know. He could not remember the past hours, the only thing he even noticed was his bed. It was warm. It didn’t smell of death, like the room he was in earlier, but instead of something fresh. He liked it. It was as though nothing had happened. He noticed that it was not his jacket that covered him anymore, but a blanket. It was warm and soft and fuzzy, not rough like the white fabric his hands gripped earlier. They slowly glided along the blanket as though he never felt it before. He did not need to open his eyes to know the time of day, yet he did not remember it being this late. Nothing mattered anymore, really. A slight memory of opening his fridge and taking something out and drinking it barely crossed his mind, but he brushed it off. He knew someone replaced his poison with water, but he didn’t care. Pretending he was dying was best, since he would find the poison again tomorrow, even though they were finally getting off this damned island. Finally. He let himself drift off.

Poison. Not poison. He couldn’t tell. He drank both. One was water. The other did not need to be in the fridge like the one that was replaced, but he drank it anyway. Not as powerful. It would take a night to come into effect. It didn‘t matter. He liked the idea of talking to someone in his sleep. It calmed him down. Memory loss. That would happen. If he didn’t awake at all, then it would be fine. Nobody would cure him. Someone had the cure, though. As long as he was gone by then.

An open door. Hurry. Rush. Quickly. A dream. Reality. Who could tell? Poison. Not poison. Pain. A corpse. Hope. Despair. Who was there? A kitchen knife. Blood. Fire. A baseball bat. Blood. A battle. Hanging. Cut. Rope. Blood. A rocket. A terrible fall. Mechanical blood, but still blood. Trampled. Torture. Blood. Spear. Blood. Blood. Tetris. No more blood. Freedom. Freedom.

Freedom. Warmth. Comfort. Alive. A dream. A reality. Freedom. Alive. Death. Awake. He was fading. He would live. Rushing. Rushing. A cure. Time running out. Time was running out. He was slipping in and out of consciousness. Fading. Fading.

Fading.

Beautiful. That was the only word which could describe a morning sky. It described a bright blue summer’s sky with fluffy white clouds. It described the face that consumed everyday life. Once this life is lost, however, nothing is beautiful anymore. Nobody can help what is lost. It is beauty that supports hope, and once that’s gone, then all will fall into despair. However, it is unclear if beauty can be followed into the afterlife. It is the job of one to find out.


End file.
